


Undying Devotion

by HerAwesomeShinyness



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Master/Servant, Possibly Unrequited Love, well sort of love at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-29 13:31:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19831249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerAwesomeShinyness/pseuds/HerAwesomeShinyness
Summary: The Witch-King of Angmar, what did he think of Eowyn? What was he thinking as they fought? How did he feel about dying? About losing? About his position?Written for wandering_took, and based on their headcanons.





	Undying Devotion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



Since their, his, failure, he had never been alone with his Master. In fact, he had only been allowed in His presence once, to be briefed on the death of the Balrog in the dwarf mine, and possibly the damned wizard with it.

It had been a brief affair, all nine of them still ashamed, the Master distracted, cold.

Now though, now they were alone.

 _You have failed me, very recently._ He said, His voice resonating in his mind.

He could only bow his head deeper. He had already apologised for his actions, this was not an accusation, merely a reminder. An important reminder that he was weak, slow, stupid, in a way his Master could never be, simply through the circumstances of his birth. It was nothing he did not know already.

_But I know you are faithful, I know you are loyal._

The great presence before him moved, and a hand, gentle yet unstoppable, raised his face to look upon his Master. He would never have dared, but now that he was commanded to, he was glad; for the bright eyes staring back at him were beautiful and terrible, a sign of majesty far beyond that of mortal men, and proof of his Master's greatness.

_Gather your fellows, and the armies of the south, and prepare to assault the lands of Gondor. I know you will not disappoint me._

As he stood, prepared to leave, a hand, again, touched him. It was a light touch upon his wrist, but it told him many things. "I do trust you" it said. And "I know the greatest punishment I could inflict upon you is to send you away".

And it was true, but he went, his heart—such as it was—lighter.

\----

The king of the horse-men had fallen, the man weak and helpless even before being destroyed by age, and soon his forces would fall too, unable to stand before the might of his Master and His armies, like all the inferior beings that still opposed Him.

They all would fall eventually.

Only the little boy stood in front of him now, the last of the king's guard attempting to protect his lord's body. Did he not realise that he was following the weaker master? Did he not see the foolishness of standing against him? Did he not _understand_ ? Any who defied Him would die, and yet this child, his voice still high with youth, was attempting to hinder him. _Him,_ his Master's greatest and most loyal of servants. The fool. He didn't know.

"No living man may hinder me!" 

It was truth, undeniable, and yet the boy laughed, and...and removed his helmet? What–

"But no living man am I!" He shouted, still defiant. "You look upon a woman."

He. She. _She_ continued talking, threatening him with new fierceness, and for just one second. Just one, for he trusted his Master. For just one second he was afraid.

For all that she was a woman, she was still a Man, weak and fragile. She could not harm him. He would destroy her, and with more relish than he would have the boy.

In his distraction though, he overshot, underestimated her. Stupid, to believe himself so strong, he was a Man as well. Still, it was his mount that paid for his mistake, and that was unimportant, expendable.

He would not fall to the daughter of a lesser kindred of Men, that was certain.

It took little to overwhelm her, though she was strong with desperation, and soon enough she was on her knees before him, her shield arm broken, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Good.

Then his knee exploded with pain, and another high voice—another woman?—was calling the name of his opponent, who staggered to her feet and, as he tried to overcome the unnatural pain—he should not be able to feel pain in the first place, but this was different, clawing at him persistently—struck.

It hurt.

In a strange, somewhat detached way, yes, but it hurt. Why was it–? Because _he_ was detached. He was dying, but...but that should not be possible! He was bound to his Master, blessed with His long life! He could not _die_!

But he was. At the hands of a woman. Of course it was a woman. A woman with fair hair and eyes, armed with cold steel and not honeyed words, but still, a _woman._

He should have known it was going to be a woman.

_No!_

His Master's voice. It was reverberating in his mind, a hand sunk into his consciousness, keeping him anchored. His Master was with him.

_What are you doing, you cannot die. You are mine! You cannot die if I do not will it!_

He couldn't, no. But...he couldn't see the woman anymore, nor the battlefield, only a strange seeping darkness, echoing with strange cries.

"My Lord," he tried to say, "I am sorry, I have failed you again."

_You have, but you will fail me even more if you abandon me now, when I most need my greatest and most faithful of servants. I command you to stay!_

"I am sorry, my Master," he could barely feel even His presence, "thank you for trying to keep me by your side. I–"


End file.
